


Let the Sky Fall

by OUATLovr



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Sad, Tragedy, always watching over Mary's shoulder, the one in which Francis is a ghost, why do i do these things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7759357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OUATLovr/pseuds/OUATLovr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Francis' death, Mary likes to think that his ghost acts as a guardian angel to her, throughout the rest of her life, until the very end. Non-linear timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She was going to die today.

Mary Stuart was not as bothered by that fact as she should have been, she knew. She had heard wretched stories of those going to their deaths, sobbing and prostrating themselves before God and man as though they expected some avenging angel to save them at the last moment. And worse stories, of blades that were not quick, and executioners that were not kind.

She knew not to expect kindness from her cousin, nor mercy.

She knew not to expect kindness from anyone.

She would not show Elizabeth any weakness now, any kindness, by going to her death a blubbering fool. She would go to her death a defiant woman, a queen, as she had always been.

An image of Catherine de Medici flashed through her mind, in that moment, ordering about servants as she prepared for her own lavish execution, and Mary felt an unfamiliar smile pull at her lips.

She did not have the sort of leeway Henry had afforded Catherine on that day, did not have the same sort of freedoms.

In a way, she was almost glad for that. Glad that she did not have any sort of freedom today, for she was not sure that she could be as strong as Catherine had been, that day.

Part of her thought that Catherine had merely been in shock, had not truly believed that Henry was capable of killing his own wife, whatever he proclaimed to the masses. That it had merely been a show, to show Henry how much he truly needed her and to let him know that she would always best him.

Catherine, who was now floundering in France, maintaining a tight control over the French throne as she stood by her son, a proud lioness of a woman who paraded around in the wolf's clothing because it was expected of her, just as it was expected of Mary to be a lamb. Knowing that she was too valuable for anyone to truly stand against, when she held her son's hearts so dear.

Sometimes, the Queen Mother still sent letters to Mary. They were reminders of happier times, and so Mary hoarded them, treasuring each one dearly. Catherine talked of the France where Mary had spent her childhood, changed now, but sometimes, Mary caught hints of the France she had left behind, for Scotland. Caught hints of blond curls and sweet smiles and the occasional blown kiss in Catherine's sprawling script, and it was for these small fragments that Mary treasured Catherine's letters so dearly.

They were few and far between now; Catherine sent her letters as frequently as ever, but Mary's captor, Paulet, while kind enough to her, was under strict orders from Elizabeth that any letters Mary received not have pertinent information in them, not after the Casket Letters had been found.

Mary wished that her own Fate would be so kind.

Oh, she had been in a state of shock, too, when she first learned of the news that she was to be executed, per her cousin's orders. She had not believed it at first, either, stubbornly clinging to the pride that came with her position; that she was the Queen of Scotland, the ruling monarch, and not some adulterous wife that Elizabeth could simply kill because she found her boring and irritable.

And then Paulet had confessed to her, that Elizabeth had asked him to contrive some clandestine way to shorten her life, through poison or strangulation while she slept, before the fact, lest England risk war over the killing of the Scottish Queen.

Paulet, her custodian, a man she had believed to be her final friend, who had truly pitied her, she knew, but whom she had been able to use to some extent, to extract a few comforts in her final months.

And, though she had not been kind to him, angered by her situation and isolation, he had still been unable to bring himself to kill her, and have such a death upon his conscience.

That was more than just kindness, and she was most grateful for it.

If she was to die because of Elizabeth, she would die igniting a war, sparking the chaos that would run throughout Europe at the news of her death.

No, she would not make this easy for Elizabeth. Not enjoyable.

The door to her room (cell) opened, and her last lady, her only servant and only friend now, in her last hour, stepped into the room, wiping at her eyes and refusing to meet Mary's.

Something about that sight felt to Mary as so terribly wrong that she leapt to her feet, moving to wrap her arms around the other woman.

It did not seem strange, to be comforting her last friend in the world at the thought of Mary's own death, merely...the right thing to do, in that moment.

She could not abide the thought of tears, today, or she might just let some fall, herself.

However, the comforting did not seem to help; her last friend in the world's tears only seemed to multiply, at it, until Mary was crushing the blonde against her and biting her lip at the woman's distress.

"Oh, Greer," she murmured fondly, reminded of the girl who had not managed to keep her tears at bay, when they were children and it hadn't mattered, in that moment.

Greer looked at her, eyes wide and already filling with tears. "You haven't called me Greer in a long time," she whispered hoarsely, and Mary nodded, for that was true. She wondered why she had let the pet name slip, now, for it clearly did not belong.

They had grown up, leaving France, as they had. It made little sense to continue calling her ladies by their childish names, in lieu of that. Greer had died, and Mary Seton had taken her place, just as Mary Beaton had taken Kenna's, and Mary Fleming Lola's, when she left her Lord Narcisse to come to Scotland, where she belonged.

They had all died, a little, every year since leaving their childhoods behind. Greer when she left behind her life in France, to stay by Mary's side, even when she had not asked her to. Lola, when she left behind her husband and infant son to come to Scotland with Mary, though she had never asked the woman to, Kenna, when she had traveled along with Mary as well, returning from her exile to "keep Mary safe." And Ailyee, too long ago.

And Mary, along with her heart, one fateful day in France.

Greer was the last of them to stand by Mary now, and that on account of her being the only one left unmarried. Lola's husband had forbidden her coming here, though Elizabeth had given her permission to do so when Mary asked, not wanting to appear too sympathetic with the Scot Queen, and therefore come under scrutiny. Kenna...Kenna had not come either, saying that she was with child and her husband did not think she could make the journey before...Well, it would be too late for her to make the journey, and the executioner would not wait that long.

No, there was only Greer left without a husband now, only Greer by her side, almost all of Mary's other servants dismissed entirely.

Well, if one went by technicalities, she was still wed to Lord Castleroy, but Greer had protected her husband to the last, had refused all marriage on account of her plans to enter a convent, once Mary was...

"Oh, Greer, don't cry," she whispered, pulling her lady into a close embrace and running a hand comfortingly down her back. It did not even occur to Mary, at that moment, that she was comforting a woman crying over the fact that _she_ was going to her death; it hardly mattered. This was her sister, her dearest friend. Her only friend left in the world, and she could pity her lady the world she was leaving her behind in. "All will be well."

Greer sniffled, pulling back. "Maybe there's something we can do. She can't execute a royal monarch; it's never been born. Perhaps Spain..."

Mary shook her head, wiping a tear from the other girl's eyes. "I'm going to die today, dear. There's no one to save me now."

Greer let out another hiccupping sob and Mary shook her head. "No tears, Greer. No tears today. I am a Queen, and you are my lady. You must not show how this affects you, not before all of these degenerates who want to cheer at my death. Do you understand? For Scotland." She bit her lip. "For me."

Greer nodded, wiping quickly at her eyes. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Mary gave her a smile. "Please don't call me that. I am only Mary Stuart, now." Elizabeth had taken even that from her, trying her as an English subject, a common woman named Mary Stuart, rather than a Scottish Queen. And then she pulled her lady into another embrace. "You are the only friend I still have in the world, Greer. I hope...I hope the world will not be so unkind to you, once I am gone.""Oh, Mary, please!" Greer cried, pulling her close again. "Please." But neither woman knew quite what she was asking for.

A moment passed, and then another.

"Greer?" Mary asked, voice soft. "Would you do my hair again, one last time?"

Greer swallowed, wiping at her eyes. "Yes, of course, Mary. Of course I will."

She sat Mary down in front of the mirror, and began to work, her fingers just as skilled as they had been years ago, when Mary was but a child at French Court and things like appearances had truly mattered to her.

French Court.

Ah, how Mary missed it, and she knew that Greer did, as well.

"Do you miss your girls, Greer? Back home?"

Greer swallowed. "All of the time, Mary. But...that was so long ago, now. And it seems...even longer. What made you think of that, of all things?"

"I should never have persuaded you to return to Scotland with me," Mary said, with a long sigh. "I should never have made you leave that life to come to such a dreary one."

Greer grabbed her by the shoulders, spinning her around, then, and Mary let out a little gasp. "You didn't persuade me of anything. You told me you were leaving like you expected me not to come with you. But I came because you are my Queen, Mary. Because you're my friend. And I would have endured this life a thousand times with you, rather than have made you live it alone."

Mary squeezed her hand. "And I thank you for that, Greer. For...for everything."

Greer gave her a small smile. "I do believe you will have the most beautiful hair of any woman to..." she trailed off then, swallowing hard. "Be a queen until the end, Mary."

Mary smiled at her. "I have always been a queen, Greer."

She heard a chuckle that sounded suspiciously like Francis', at that, heard the words whispering through the opened window of her bedchamber, "That you have, my Mary."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for 3x08

She had known that Catherine would resort to anything to protect her children, especially the ones that still lived, had known that Catherine was capable of anything for some time now, ever since Catherine had nearly arranged for her to be raped by Lola's lover.

She had not expected Catherine to be quite capable of this, though.

She heard the sound of a scuffle in the courtyard at the same time that Lola did, the two of them exchanging nervous glances before walking forward, Mary shoving past the guards who were clearly attempting to keep her back.

She could see Catherine, being offered down from the carriage she rode in as primly as a Queen by Bash, ignoring the enraged look on Narcisse's face as he stalked toward them, and Mary knew that she had to do something, to stop this.

She could not lose anyone else, not now.

"Take the Queen Mother into custody." He glared at Catherine. "You didn't seriously think you could return here and retain your freedom."

The look that Catherine gave him was cold and unforgiving, as though he were the one on trial here. "I returned to earn my freedom," she told him, voice calm, but Mary could hear the undercurrents of anger in it.

Behind her, Bash let out a sigh. To Mary, he looked coldly angered and at the same time emotionless, and she felt the first prickings of fear in her heart, at what could elicit that look from her Bash. She knew that he had gone with Catherine to see...The Body, but the thought of actually looking down on it, checking it for poison...that was not something she had wanted either of them to have to do, and so Mary had put it from her mind as much as she was able while she attempted to salvage the situation in Scotland. "Unload the King."

Mary stepped out then, aware of Lola behind her, and Narcisse echoed in confusion, "The King?"

Lola sent Mary a bemused look, but Mary simply shook her head, just as confused as Lola herself was.

Why Catherine would feel it necessary to bring the body here, rather than simply finding the embalmer, as she'd planned to do, confused Mary.

"I've endured many trials," she could hear Catherine saying to Narcisse, though the words barely registered to her, in that moment, as she watched the guards unload The Coffin. Her words were calm, though a storm lingered just underneath, and Mary shivered at the sound, for she knew that they hid a true fury, one that few rarely escaped. "But nothing as painful as being forced to look upon the decaying corpse of my firstborn son."

"Dear God, Catherine," Narcisse breathed, but Mary barely heard the words.

_The decaying corpse of my firstborn son..._

She swallowed hard, something like fear creeping up inside of her, and forced herself not to stumble back into the castle. She would be there, for this. She had to be.

Catherine still wasn't looking at them as she went on, "That is an image that I cannot get out of my mind, Stephan, and it was you who put it there. You gave me no choice. I'm innocent, and my son's body will prove it."

She had not thought to see it again, that coffin, the beautiful, black sleek box that her husband would forever be interred in, not after the fateful day when it was taken to Saint-Denis. Had not wanted the added burden, the reminder.

She thought she might sick up as it was set gently on the ground, the realization of what was about to happen only just now occurring to her, though she knew in her heart that she'd already had some horrible idea.

It fell to the ground with horrible clanking sound, and Mary flinched.

"Open the coffin," Catherine said softly, and Mary stiffened, reaching for Lola's arm instinctively, the pain and anger she could feel radiating off of the other woman at the realization that her husband was not so innocent as she'd thought him barely registering to Mary in that moment.

And then Catherine was looking at her, eyes full of sympathy and a shared pain, but Mary couldn't meet them, couldn't bring herself to look away from the coffin as the lid was slowly lifted. Couldn't tear her eyes away, knowing that her imagination would be offering up terrible images in her nightmares if she did not look.

"Mary," she said gently, using the voice she had often used when Mary was much younger a child, "Avert your eyes."

And she wanted to; she wanted nothing more than to do just that, as Lola wrapped an arm around her shoulders and attempted to pull her away, but she couldn't.

Couldn't bring herself to look away as her husband's body was revealed to the elements, as his _decaying corpse_ was put on display for everyone standing in the courtyard.

It was worse than anything she could have imagined, to lay eyes on her dead husband's body in that state, and Mary felt bile rising up in her throat, wishing that she had listened to Catherine and not looked, though, in her heart, she knew that she could not have done otherwise. And now, she could hardly bring herself to tear her eyes away.

She felt tears pricking at the corners of her vision, allowed Lola to drag her away bonelessly, lifting a hand up to cover her mouth and finally, finally, managing to peel her eyes away from the gruesome sight.

It felt good to run, to play the coward as she heard Catherine and Narcisse continue to haggle. She didn't struggle as Lola led her back to her bedchambers, set her down on the chaise and rubbed at her hands, as if breathing life back into them.

Mary wished that she could breathe life back into Francis just as easily, and she closed her eyes, only to find that it did not block out the images, only branded them further in her mind.

"What lies in that coffin is only Francis' body," Lola told her gently, cupping Mary's elbow. "His soul, his memory...they live on."

She knew that they were just words meant to comfort her, meaningless in their entirety, and yet, Mary could not help but think of Francis, his soul, his memory, living on, watching over her now.

Mary forced a sad smile, wiping at her eyes, nodded. "For Catherine to go to such lengths..." she drew in a ragged breath. "I can only hope this means we can put the whole agonizing mess behind us."

She wanted nothing more than that.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a terribly stale and hot day to die.

She handed her jewels to the executioner with a smile and the words she had practiced to say this day, and he took them, weighed them in his hands before placing them in the pocket of his jacket.

And then he knelt, leaning on the axe he would take her head with for support. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," he whispered, and Mary swallowed hard. She knew what she would say; that too had been rehearsed, and yet, the words seemed to clog in her throat for the longest time.

A silence filled the crowd, the air crackling around them, the axe the executioner leaned on creaking.

She felt a brush of air, like a kiss, against her temple, and smiled.

"I forgive you with all my heart," she told him, honestly, "For now, I hope, you shall make an end of all my troubles."

He nodded, and swore to do so, standing to his feet and bidding her to kneel down before the chopping block.

Mary nodded, turning to Greer who stood behind her, shaky but strong, just as she had promised to be. Greer reached out, gently pulling off Mary's robes for the last time, the garments draped over her arms as though they were made of pure gold, rather than the bland white cotton that they were.

The silence grew almost unbearable then, and Mary did not have to look up to know that all eyes were on her. "I have never had such grooms before...nor ever put off my clothes before such a company."

It almost felt nice to be out of the clothes, if only for the sake of the heat.

Behind her, she heard Greer suck in a sob, and closed her eyes. 'Strength, Greer. One last time.'

There was a nervous, charged tittering of laughter from the crowd, and then Mary knew that she could not allow Elizabeth to get the last words, with her order of death for her own royal cousin.

"Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit," she said, her voice loud and echoing in the square.

Stunned silence met those words.

She thought she heard a chuckle, on the wind, and smiled.

And then Mary knelt.

She doubted most in the crowd would understand her words, the meaning behind them. That she was an innocent, not one for Elizabeth to rightly kill, gone to the slaughter, as their Christ was.

Still, it felt...right, good, to be able to say those words, even if none but Greer would perhaps understand their meaning.

The block came up beneath her chin all too soon, and she let out a little gasp of breath as she got her balance.

The air was far too hot once again.

She wondered how Catherine had truly felt, behind all of her defiant bravado, as she placed her head on that block and thought that it would truly be used to kill her.

Mary had not asked to practice with the block, as Catherine had. She doubted Elizabeth would have granted her the request, in any case, and she would not do her cousin the amusement of practicing for a death that she had no control over.

The wood felt foreign beneath her smooth neck, too hard and too indented, where her chin was meant to be. She knew, technically, that she was to hold her head a little above the block when the axe swung, and not lay it inside that groove, and yet, she wanted to feel its weight, its integrity, in this moment. It was an anchor, and a lethal one, though she supposed she should be grateful that it was clean. Scottish nobles were dropping like flies, these days.

She laid her head upon the block then, and gave a hand signal to the executioner, that she was ready. Greer let out another choking sound, but suppressed it, so that none beyond the first row of the crowd might have heard it.

And Mary waited for the final blow.


End file.
